Violin and Sherlock
by BBCRULES
Summary: This is a repost of my previous story. Based on reviews, I made revision and got it betaed. My deep thanks goes to Matchbox Dragon. I loved the betaread version and I think readers deserve to read the revised story, too. Thanks so much, everybody. Reviews are very welcome. P.S Thanks for kind review(S). I am enjoying Violin a lot now though vibrato is a bit challenging:-)


A.N This is betaread version of my previous story, Violin. Thank you so much, Matchbox Dragon for the kind and thorough betareading. Thanks so much.

I found John's letter to Cardiff Violins where he was thanking the shop staff for recommending the perfect violin for his flatmate, Sherlock. It prompted this story.

The names are all fictional, of course. Thanks for reading.

* * *

It was another Monday, the day that nothing, good or bad, would happen. The violin in the front showcase stared outside. The rain hadn't stopped but finally turned into drizzle, and the sky was pale grey.

_I hate this moisture, so damp. Look at my strings. They are all loose now._

The violin pouted and yawned. A new boring day had started. It stared blankly at the shelves that held rosins, tuners, and strings. Familiar voices hit its ears. Two people, the shop's owners, came into its view. Cécile was a tall, blonde woman who could play the cello and the guitar. Chris was a short ginger-haired man who could play the trumpet. They seemed to be arguing about a customer who was to visit soon and sounded very picky. After a few minutes of argument, they tossed for it. The man lost and had to deal with the customer.

The shop door creaked open and the bell rang loudly. The violin stared at the two men curiously. One with dark hair was rangy and tall, and was wearing a black coat and a navy scarf in the middle of June. The other, shorter and blonde, was in a green jacket and jeans. Cécile and Chris looked at each other. She took out folders and picked up the phone, and Chris greeted the two men with a feigned smile.

"Good morning. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"This is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm John Watson. I had called you the other night."

"Oh, yes, yes… Mr. Holmes wants to replace his old instrument. You said it was 'blown away'?"

His voice was incredulous and the dark-haired man called Sherlock shrugged.

"It was an experiment gone badly."

"Experiment with a musical instrument? What kind of... Sorry, not my business."

Chris threw a questioning glance at the shorter blond bloke. Mr. Holmes' penetrating stare made him uncomfortable for some reason.

His companion, John, rolled his eyes at him and hissed, "Don't, not here. No deduction whatsoever."

"I'm not doing anything. You always say no."

The doctor hushed him, and turned his face to Chris.

"Well, it sometimes happens. Can we look around? Would you show us some violins?"

"Sure, sure. Upstairs, please."

Chris ushered them upstairs where rows of string instruments were hung or stood on the floor. Violins and violas were hung on walls while cellos and double basses were placed on their stands. The violin sighed. Since Cécile had placed it in the display showcase downstairs, it had barely met any potential buyers. The violin wanted to vibrate its song and to get indulged in a duet dance with its bow.

It drifted into the reminiscence of the long gone days. Mr. Grisham had cherished it so dearly. He always cleared rosin dust off its body, replaced strings and pegs if necessary, and most of all, played beautiful music for people. Then suddenly he disappeared. The violin didn't know why but a few weeks later, Mrs. Grisham took it to the hospital where Mr. Grisham, shrivelled and pale, was lying on the bed. His face beamed. He gently plucked the strings, yet all the complicated tubes hindered him from playing it. He caressed its body for a long time. The next morning he didn't open his eyes. The violin had to stay in its case for a long time and then found itself here in the shop.

It had hoped to meet another owner who loved music and the violin. However, for two months, no one had even glanced at it. Once a week, Cécile picked it up and wiped off the dust.

Upstairs the violins were being played incessantly. It seemed the dark-haired man had set his mind to test all of the violins in the store. There were mumbling sounds, and the violin could hear that Chris' patience was wearing thin. The violin lost track of time and dozed off.

"Oh, I don't know. Cécile will suggest other shops to try," Chris yelled and ran downstairs, waking up the violin from its nap.

The ginger head bobbed outside as he seethed and cursed under his breath. Cécile ran out after him. The violin couldn't hear them but could see their faces - Chris' was reddened and he seemed to be yelling. He turned away and walked into the coffee place across the street. Cécile came back into the shop, shaking her head as the two men walked downstairs. The shorter one turned red, while his companion looked nonchalant.

The woman managed to smile at the tall man. "My colleague informs me that you deduced the history of each instrument you picked up. Also I don't know how you did it but you identified the rosin dust from each bow that had previously been used. It seems we don't have an instrument that can satisfy your taste… Well, I can refer you to the other shops in the neighbourhood."

The shorter bloke looked relieved. Cécile tore a blank page off her notepad and started to draw lines to mark the location of other shops.

"Here is Muse, a shop that specialises in string instruments only. It's two blocks away…"

Her hand stopped when the tall man's baritone voice cut in. The violin couldn't believe it. His eyes were fixated on it.

"What about that one, next to drums and harpsichord?"

Cécile picked it up and handed it to the detective. She said, "It is a used one. It was Mr. Rob Grisham's. He was a member of the Cardiff Orchestra and recently passed away. His wife sold it and we've been displaying it here. It was his 'practice' violin; his wife only kept the performance one. The sound quality seems to be okay, but…"

Sherlock looked at the instrument carefully. The violin would have blushed if it had the capacity. The man's intense stare examined the sleek, shiny, dark brown body, the beautifully carved scroll at the end of the peg box, the well-used four silver-coloured strings that sat on the fingerboard. It could tell the man was a good violinist in the way that he tuned its strings with his pale long fingers. Soon his right hand elegantly manipulated the bow back and forth and produced very beautiful Bach, Aria on the G string. Sherlock closed his eyes and kept playing baroque music. At first the violin felt shy at the hand of a stranger and coughed out husky sounds, but soon began to sing beautifully.

After a couple of baroque music pieces, the violin stopped vibrating. The tall man nodded.

"I'll take it. I also need an extra set of the four strings, a couple of E strings and some rosin. The bow… I suppose the hair has to be replaced."

The violin was cleaned carefully and put into a new case. The bow with new hair, extra strings just in case, and rosin… The tall man didn't complain at the price that Cécile proposed. The case lid was shut, and soon the violin felt as if it were on ocean waves…

* * *

The new place was a very cosy, small room. It wasn't clean, with all of the odds and ends scattered around. The violin found that its new master loved playing it as much as its previous owner, Mr. Grisham. This pale young man managed and used the instrument well. The only difference was that the time of the day seemed to not matter the new master. He often picked it up and played at any time of day or night: dawn, late in the evening, midnight. At times when most people sleep the violin had to overwork itself.

Mostly the violin played beautiful melodies. It often soothed the atmosphere between its master and the flatmate. Sometimes, the old lady called Mrs. Hudson applauded hard at the music. Mr. Holmes was very deft at the violin. The festive atmosphere was doubled when its owner played numerous carols for the party at Christmas time. The violin was happy to see glowing faces of the guests. It also liked the company of John Watson when its master played _Auld Lang Syne_ at the bongs of Big Ben at midnight on New Year's Eve.

However, once in a while, the violin had to screech and squeal during the night. Twice Mrs. Turner, the enraged neighbour, made a personal visit to complain. Once a friend of the flat residents called Greg came and gave a stern warning because some people had complained. Mr. Holmes seemed to not mind such remonstration. Some people could say it was close to 'abuse' of the musical instrument but the violin disagreed. It became quite fond of its new master, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He was as talented as Mr. Grisham.

It was spring again. When the case was opened, the violin wondered what the occasion was. The master was boiling water in a kettle. He placed two teacups and a teapot on a tray. The violin hadn't seen its master cook anything for anyone, so it was very curious about what was going on.

Sherlock Holmes picked up the violin. Then Bach's Partita No.1 filled the room as he moved the bow. Abruptly the bow stopped and the violin could say it had just heard creaking of the stairs. The music started again and the door creaked open. A man in a grey suit was at the door, grinning. The violin felt unexplainable chills. Its master put it on the table and began to make tea. It barely understood the dialogue between the two men. The visitor must have owned money to its owner, a very serious financial problem, it seemed. After the man left, the violin was put away and it was alarmed by at its master's expression. He looked very serious.

* * *

Days passed. The violin stayed in darkness, wondering if its owner had forgotten its existence. It had lost track of time and drifted in and out of dreams.

Then the case clicked open. Eye-blinding light fell onto the violin and it blinked a few times.

_Finally. Master. I've waited too long._

The violin wanted to dance and yell because soon its master would tune the strings that had loosened and produce a beautiful music. The air felt refreshing and the light was glamorous, although it smelled rain.

Something was different. Another set of hands were caressing its body. It was his flatmate, John. He looked haggard and pale. His untidy hair was matted into clumps. He was in his dressing gown. Something bad must have happened but the instrument didn't know what it was. It tried to find its owner but he wasn't in the sitting room. To its surprise, the room was smelly and dirty.

"Just leave it here. He can't take it," the doctor growled.

A young woman's calm voice objected. The instrument realised there was a stranger in the room, a young beautiful woman dressed up elegantly.

"John, instruments need management. Mr. Holmes wants to keep it in his manor. You can't stop it. He is Sherlock's brother."

"Yes, and it's all Cain and Abel again."

"John," the woman warned with a frown.

"I know I can't stop him. But…he had sold his brother out. Sherlock wouldn't have jumped off the building if…."

"John. He suffers like you."

"Anthea, don't expect me to feel sorry for Mycroft."

"If you refuse to let me take it, then he will send a violinist every week for tuning. Sometimes he might visit the flat personally."

"Ugh…"

The doctor closed the case back. The violin wanted to protest, but of course no one could hear it. There were more mumblings but it didn't care. Too disappointed, the violin just stared the darkness blankly.

The next time its case was open, it found a stranger, another violinist, tuning the strings. For thirty minutes, she played various arpeggios. It was a new place, a large, luxurious, well-furnished room.

_Am I sold again? Is she my new mistress? Where am I? Where's the John bloke?_

It wondered about this but soon saw a familiar face, his master's brother, sitting on the sofa. The woman frowned and started tuning again. Eventually, it took more than an hour before the stranger nodded and put down the violin.

The woman came and played it regularly, but never for more than thirty minutes. After the violinist left, the older brother always caressed the instrument and sometimes plucked the strings. His eyes looked sad or concerned.

* * *

Years passed. The instrument had no hope of seeing a happy audience again. It was abandoned by its master. Like Mr. Grisham, Sherlock Holmes must have gone.

Life was tedious and boring, a weekly episode of tuning and arpeggios, the same monotonous melodies again and again. It desired to scream yet it couldn't. Once its E string snapped in protest, and the violinist had to replace the string and tune it again.

The violin had lost all hope of reuniting with its master, Mr. Holmes. It didn't matter who would play it. It prayed and prayed.

_Anybody could have me. Just let me entertain people and the Muse._

It just wanted to serve its purpose: to give happiness and pleasure to an audience. The only audience was its master's brother, who looked old and sad.

The violin knew it was rendered useless.

* * *

It was summer again. All of a sudden someone picked up the case. It was being moved, the violin knew it as the case swayed and swayed. When it stopped, it heard a car's engine humming.

_Nobody even cares that I always suffer from a terrible carsickness? _

No wonder the instrument got dizzy and touchy during the ride. After getting out of the car, it heard creaks of stairs. It counted them just because it needed distraction from the carsickness that churned its belly. Seventeen creaks. Then it heard mumbles. It felt itself being placed on a flat table.

The case clicked open and the violin was blinded by sudden light. But, it knew something was different in the air as it was taken out of the case. It saw the long pale fingers. The touch was familiar. Before it realised, the hands started tuning and bowing.

"I need some practice, I suppose," the baritone voice said.

It was his voice. He seemed almost gaunt, his pale skin was translucent and he must have lost a number of pounds. His face had bruises, quite fresh ones, as if someone had punched it recently. Only his emerald eyes held the same twinkle. The brief moment of joy to see him soon turned into something bitter.

_Well, why would I even care? You abandoned me._

The violin pouted. If it had real 'eyes', then it would've shed tears. If it had 'arms', it would've punched the pale bruised face. Physically, the instrument unfortunately only had its voice so it was determined to squeak and groan.

The strings took longer to get tuned. The violin ignored the fingers that tried to turn its four pegs and looked around to find that it was in the old flat. How much it had missed the place! The skull on the mantelpiece seemed to salute, the bison skull appeared to wink and the yellow smiley was grinning from ear to ear. Then the instrument stopped its resistance as it found the familiar faces. John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes and the woman that it had met long time ago, Molly. Something caught its eye.

_Wait, Mycroft's face is also bruised. What could've happened? Did the brothers have a brawl? _

It took a couple of minutes for the instrument to register the situation: its master, Sherlock Holmes, had returned. The old lady's eyes were brimming with tears and the woman with the ponytail was dabbing her handkerchief around her eyes. John and Greg were apparently swallowing their feelings, and kept blinking and clearing their throats. Sometimes, the older brother looked down and breathed deeply as if he would suppress his emotions too. The violin wanted to cry. It dawned on it that everything would be back to normal.

An unexplainable elation swept the violin. Its heart started beating faster. It shuddered when it felt the familiar touch of its bow. Soon the bowing started but its master must have neglected practicing the violin while he was gone. The bowing was not as powerful and smooth as it had been, and sometimes the violin produced creaking sounds. The fingers pressing the strings were a little unstable and made some dissonant tunes with a few notes a bit low or high. But it didn't matter. The violin sang as best as it could. Back with its master and friends... It was happy.

* * *

Thanks to BBC Drama Sherlock, I've started getting a weekly violin lesson again. I had learnt it long ago, stopped for ages and now I'm learning it again. My heart is filled with happiness when my fingers press the strings (positioning is always hard) and my right hand moves the bow (Oh, please don't forget the right grip). What a perfect instrument it is. Position shifting is rather trickly, but I understand most of it:-) Practicing the aria on the G string:-)

Thanks for reading my first attempt to personify an object. Your reviews are highly valued:-)


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